In the twilight of his wisdom, the king was prostrated in an unworthy plight, as though cast down from celestial heights by the exhaustion of his virtues. Heavy with despair, his gaze locked onto Kaikeyi’s eyes, which gleamed with an unyielding resolve—a reflection of incarnate destruction. She stood unrelenting, unmoved by his pleas, her posture almost threatening.
“O King,” she declared with scornful precision, “you pride yourself on being a man of your word, yet now you lament and wail before me. Where is your vaunted honor? Fulfill your promise, or be forever shamed.”
The king, tormented by her unkind words, found his fury dissipating into a weary helplessness. “O vile soul,” he cried, “if Rama is exiled, my days on this earth are numbered. When I depart to the heavenly abode, how shall I answer the gods when they ask of Rama’s fate? Can I lie to the divine? They see all; they know all. I am left with no recourse but to prepare for the worst, not with hope, but from grim necessity.”
Dasaratha’s anguish deepened as his thoughts turned to Rama’s perilous exile. “How shall he fare in the wild, where danger lurks at every step? How will he sustain himself in that lonely forest?” He glanced toward the heavens, his sorrow mirrored in the celestial dome. The full moon, once a source of solace, now seemed a darkened orb of despair. “O night,” he whispered, “linger not; hasten away so I may be free of this torment. Yet, O night, tarry a while, for I dread the dawn and the evil it shall bring.”
Turning to Kaikeyi, his voice quivered. “I am old and frail. Spare me this torment. Take the kingdom; give it to Rama and take credit for his reign. Only leave me with my dignity.” But his words, increasingly disjointed and incoherent, failed to sway Kaikeyi, whose resolve remained unbroken. Her reply came sharp and cutting: “Kings of old, like Saibhya and Alarka, upheld their promises at great personal cost. Be true to your word and grant my demand. My insistence is not to harm but to uphold your honor.”
Kaikeyi proclaimed thrice, “Rama shall be exiled,” her voice as cold and unyielding as steel. The king, trembling and defeated, fell to the ground, tears staining his cheeks like rubies. “I cast you and your son away from my soul,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
As dawn broke, Vasishtha, the royal sage, arrived with all the ceremonial grandeur befitting a coronation: 108 sacred urns of Ganges water, fragrant offerings, sacred grass, golden chariots drawn by majestic steeds, and a procession of musicians, dancers, and sages. The air in Ayodhya was heavy with anticipation and festivity, as multitudes gathered in joyous expectation. Vasishtha, serene and purposeful, instructed Sumanthra, the king’s charioteer, to summon Dasaratha for the sacred rites.
Sumanthra, unwavering in his loyalty, approached the king with reverence. “O King, rise like the morning sun and guide your people with the brilliance of your wisdom. The realm awaits your command.” But the king, under Kaikeyi’s oppressive influence, could scarcely respond. Instead, Kaikeyi intervened, feigning concern. “The king is weary from the excitement of Rama’s coronation. Fetch Rama without delay.”
Believing the queen’s words, Sumanthra hastened to Rama’s palace, marveling at the jubilant crowds that thronged the streets. Yet, within his heart, a vague unease stirred, as though the very essence of royal power and its fragile underpinnings were being laid bare before him.